What's mine is never separate, but by thousands - the moment when material flowers in manner: over our struggle there was no banner swimming, bright-finned upon a scalene sky; into our hands a moment, with the wings of still air, slid like a bird from thunder secretly: the lives of worlds were there. Flame, said the Encheiridion, is a ghost - Time yet will never think of us at all: so, Fortune's Lazarus hour-licked, we crawl towards the accumulated Host.